


Along The Path Of Light

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Post Reichenbach, Quite a lot of talking, past and implied and current relationships everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You? How did he let you down?” John’s eyes snapped up to meet Sally’s.</p><p>“He didn’t tell you?” Sally asked incredulously. John shook his head slowly. “I was demoted because of him,” she smiled bitterly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along The Path Of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rerin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rerin/gifts).



> Rerin won my services in the fundraiser auction and prompted me with: "Sally’s story. Remember when Sally said Sherlock will always let you down? I want a story where Sherlock did something awful to Sally in the past, and John finds out what it was." Sorry I've kept you waiting for so long.
> 
> Huge thanks to [johnlocksholmies](http://www.johnlocksholmies.tumblr.com/) for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Five weeks ago Sherlock had turned up at John’s one bedroom flat in Lewisham to tell him he’s alive. John had punched him, repeatedly, and didn’t talk to him for the next two weeks. Sherlock had texted him every day, mostly about the mundane details of life back in London and his plans to move back to Baker Street. John never replied but didn’t delete the texts either. When Sherlock described in detail how hard Mrs Hudson slapped him, he laughed until his face hurt. After two weeks of calming down John called and Sherlock picked up. It felt like a new start.

Three weeks ago John had started visiting Sherlock at Baker Street. The flat was already cluttered and Sherlock was sashaying around the place in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Things were almost back to normal. Sherlock didn’t have any human parts stashed around the kitchen. John had to break the habit of making tea only for himself. Sherlock played the violin during the day and whatever he played usually had a clear melody. John nagged Sherlock about eating more and Sherlock complied. John went back to his own flat each night, only to return first thing in the morning.

A week ago John had turned up at Baker Street with two suitcases and a large cardboard box. Neither of them had said anything. Sherlock helped unpack the box and put John’s belongings in their rightful places. John made tea and hid his smile. He cooked dinner and Sherlock sat in the kitchen with him, both talking about nothing in particular. Mrs Hudson hovered by the front door not wanting to ruin the moment. When she heard them laughing she couldn’t help herself and hugged them both and tried not to cry.

Three days ago an official announcement had been made that Sherlock was alive. The media circus surrounding the news was terrifying. Journalists camped out in front of 221 day and night, interrogating anyone within close proximity of the flat. Sherlock and John had made one brief appearance, to confirm the announcement and ask for privacy. Sherlock was made to wear the deerstalker and hated every second of it. He tore it off his head as soon the front door closed behind them, shoved it into John’s hands and bolted upstairs into their flat. John laughed so hard for so long Mrs Hudson came out of her flat to make sure he was okay. Sherlock didn’t speak to either until his third cup of tea.

Tomorrow Sherlock’s grave will be dismantled.

Today John visited it for the last time.

 

—

 

John didn’t know what to do. He didn’t plan the visit, it just felt like something he ought to do after Sherlock told him the grave would be gone the next day. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything out loud, having done that so many times in the past, knowing that the grave was empty and its supposed occupant was alive and safe at Baker Street. John knew Sherlock would get bored of being alone in the flat very soon. He estimated he had about half an hour to forty five minutes before Sherlock made his way here to take him home.

John stared at the headstone blankly.

He was tired. Tired of the emotional chaos inside his head, making it feel like it might burst at any moment. He felt relieved, angry, disappointed, happy, upset and elated all at the same time. Sherlock told him everything about the last two years, answered all of John’s questions and repeatedly asserted his deception had been the only way out. John understood the sacrifices Sherlock made, and was grateful for them, but the knowledge didn’t make it any easier for John to write off the two years as... As what exactly? Unimportant? Non-existent? Sherlock had survived aided by the knowledge that he would come back to his old life eventually, that everything was temporary. John had to build his life anew around the fact that his best friend was dead. Adjusting to reality once again was just as arduous as the last time.

John was sure he let Sherlock back into his life far too quickly but he couldn’t think of it as a mistake, even though he knew that’s what his new therapist would tell him. He wanted to start over, wipe the slate clean and learn to trust again.

John was mildly surprised to find the graveyard empty. He expected the place to be swarming with journalists but it seemed they did not expect anyone to show up at a living man’s grave. Why would they? John looked around anyway just to be sure he wasn’t followed. He spotted a familiar figure a few hundred yards away. He set off in their direction and was about to call out as he got closer when he realised he probably shouldn’t. It was a graveyard after all, no one but him had the luxury of visiting an empty grave.

John watched as Sally Donovan set down a bouquet of flowers. He got a bit closer, careful not to intrude on a private moment. Maybe he could talk to her afterwards. He hasn't seen Sally since a little over a year ago, when a chance meeting in a pub ended in a conversation that lasted until dawn. That night John had realised he couldn't blame her, or anyone at the Met, for doing their job competently. Moriarty’s plan had been executed perfectly.

John shuffled a bit closer and trod on a small heap of dry leaves, catching Sally's attention. She looked surprised to see him.

“John? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, um, sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” John apologised. He really did feel awful barging in like that. “I really didn’t want to—I just wanted to say hello, since we haven’t... Look, I’m sorry, I’ll let you—“

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” Sally interrupted him. She touched the headstone lightly one more time and turned towards him.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t know you lost someone.”

“It was my mum,” Sally smiled sadly.

“Oh.” John didn’t know what to do with himself. He opted for putting his hands in his pockets and shifting his feet. “I know we said we’d stay in touch after, you know, but—“

“John,” Sally smirked at him. “It’s all fine.”

John smiled back. Sally closed the distance between them and enveloped him in a fierce hug. They stayed like that for a few long moments. Eventually, Sally let go of him and linked their arms together.

“How long do we have before Sherlock follows you here?”

 

—

 

They sat on a bench under an old oak tree. They could see most of the cemetery from there; a mixture of old, overgrown, crumbling tombstones and statues, and shiny new headstones surrounded by fresh flowers. Dried leaves were slowly floating from the tree above them, showering them in yellow and red.

“She had Alzheimer’s,” Sally said unprompted. John wanted to ask about her mum but didn’t feel comfortable starting the conversation. “She had it for over ten years. She was okay until the last two.” Sally was looking straight ahead, unmoving, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

“I’m sorry,” John didn’t know what else to say. He covered her hands lightly with one of his own. Sally turned to look at him.

“Don’t be. She suffered a lot. I miss her but I’m glad it’s over.” She gave John a small smile. He kept his hand on hers as they lapsed into silence. They watched an elderly lady meander through the cemetery, fresh flowers clutched tightly in her arms. She came to a stop near an old headstone. She started cleaning it meticulously, flowers forgotten for the time being, all the while talking as if catching up with an old friend.

“I heard you punched him when he came back,” Sally said unexpectedly. She was looking at John with mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“More than once,” John admitted. The bruises took a while to fade, both on Sherlock’s face and John’s hands. “He didn’t stop me though. Just stood there and took it. I nearly broke his nose, kicked him out, and he didn’t say a word.”

John sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. He didn’t mean to talk about it, not yet, it made it sound a lot more melodramatic than it actually was. He was so angry at the time he didn’t think straight. In retrospect he probably should’ve let Sherlock say something more besides his name before beating the living daylights out of him.

“Sorry, you probably didn’t need to hear all that. I shouldn’t have— Ow!” John turned towards Sally with surprise, covering his arm protectively. That punch to his bicep really hurt. “Why would you—“

“If you say you’re feeling guilty for punching Sherlock, I will hit you again. Harder this time,” Sally had her right hand balled in a fist, ready to strike again, her face set in an almost snarl. John rubbed his arm thoughtfully and winced. “He deserved every last punch and then some.”

“No, I wasn’t—I don’t feel guilty for punching him. Maybe a little—,“ John slid to the other side of the bench before Sally’s fist connected with his arm again. “I think he wanted to say something and I didn’t let him and I should have,” he finished quickly.

“Hmpf,” Sally lowered her hand. She didn’t look convinced. “He jumped off a building and made you watch, disappeared for over two years and then showed up at your flat as if nothing happened,” she said bitterly. “He made you grieve.”

“He did it to protect me and Mrs Hudson and Greg,” John explained although he suspected Sally knew this already.

“Yes, I know,” she said, visibly irritated. “But a dead man on your doorstep isn’t exactly the kindest way of telling you what really happened.” She paused and chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. “Are you sure you can still trust him?”

“Sally, please,” John sighed and bent forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He knew she meant well but he really didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Not with her or anyone else. The confusion inside his head was enough without other people adding to it.

“He let so many people down over the years – you, me, Lestrade, half of the Met really—“

“You? How did he let _you_ down?” John’s eyes snapped up to meet Sally’s.  He was desperate to change the subject and discussing someone else’s trust issues was better than discussing his own. Sally blinked at him.

“He didn’t tell you?” Sally asked incredulously. John shook his head slowly. “I was demoted because of him,” Sally smiled bitterly. “Shortly after he first showed up at a crime scene. I trusted him, he fucked up and nearly cost me my job.”

John was taken aback. He knew Sally and Sherlock had some sort of history between them, but he never thought it would be as serious as this. Maybe a clash of personalities or Sherlock revealing too much of what he deduced about Sally, but not this. What he thought were petty fights and pointless name calling hid an uglier and darker past. As a soldier John understood the consequences of a demotion – a permanent mark on one’s record. Sally had every right to be angry, whatever the cause, even after so many years.

“I suppose I should tell you the whole story, ‘cause he never will,” Sally leaned back on the bench and crossed her arms. John nodded. “He first popped up in a crowd gathered round a murder scene. At the time both me and Greg were DSs, Woodhouse was the DI.” John remembered meeting a detective named Woodhouse, already a DCI at the time, and disliking the man on sight. “The body was left in the middle of a small street, close to their house. Third victim in two weeks and we had barely any clues to go on. It was a right mess,” Sally sighed and uncrossed her arms. She glanced at John briefly before continuing.

“Greg and I had to get rid of the crowd, try to push them back, out of the street, so the forensics could do their work. Sherlock started correcting them– it was quite a distance at this point – and Greg got suspicious. We took him in for questioning and the bastard knew everything,” Sally smiled wryly. “He wouldn’t tell us how it was done until he got a closer look at the body. We didn’t really think he was the murderer, but we needed something, anything.” Sally ran a hand through her hair and frowned.

“He pointed out a few things and then we let him go. Greg didn’t believe him and I was reluctant too, at first at least, but I checked the life insurance of one of the victims...” Sally waved a dismissive hand. “The details are not important. Some of the stuff he said checked out. We weren’t quick enough and a fourth body was found two days later. I convinced Greg to listen to Sherlock, maybe get him access to the bodies, so he could have a look. We agreed to keep Woodhouse out of it, he was a stickler for the rules, would’ve had our heads for that.”

“That hasn’t changed,” John admitted. Sally carried on without acknowledging his remark.

“We caught the guy after Sherlock helped. So I trusted him. Asked for his help on the next big case. Homicide mixed with drug smuggling, ugly stuff. We solved the case, Woodhouse still none the wiser, and the whole thing fell apart in court.” Sally put her head in her hands. John slid closer and put a comforting hand on her back.

“Sherlock was called as a witness. Because he knew the guy, because he got drugs off him... And I was involved too. God, it was a mess,” Sally shuddered.

“But getting help from a source on the inside is not—“

“John, I was involved with him. As in, we were sleeping together,” Sally clarified without looking at John. His jaw dropped. He was aware he was gaping but couldn’t stop. “The defence successfully argued that my judgement was severely biased due to my ‘boyfriend’,” she spat the word out. “And the fact that he was a drug addict and all the evidence was based on his observations. They made it look like a personal vendetta of a delusional junkie and a loyal detective girlfriend.”

John slid his arm around Sally’s waist. She leaned on his shoulder and sighed loudly. Sally and Sherlock’s involvement was a slight surprise, but paled in comparison to the bigger story.

“They demoted you because of that?”

“Yeah. I almost got kicked out completely. Greg vouched for me, nearly got himself demoted too.” Sally pressed her face into John’s shoulder. “I didn’t realise he took drugs. I was so blinded by his genius I believed everything he said.” She paused. “I knew what he did was real. I just didn’t trust him. I still don’t.”

John wanted to ask what happened to Sherlock. Was he charged with anything? Probably not, and even if he had, Mycroft most definitely got him out of it. John knew Sherlock’s drug problems continued for a while after that. For how long? What made him go clean? Was the pull of detective work so great, overpowering enough to beat his addiction? Did Mycroft help? Did Lestrade? John said nothing. Sally might not know the whole story, and besides now was not the time to ask. John would have to wait to get the answers from the source himself.

John tried to imagine Sherlock back then, so careless and inconsiderate; such a stark contrast to the man who threw his life away for his friends.

“I hope the sex was worth it,” John said lightly, trying to brighten the mood.

“Almost. Those three weeks were very educational,” Sally giggled. She sat up straight and looked at John with a mischievous smile. “You know, last year, when— most of the tricks I learned from him.”

It was John’s turn to smile mischievously.

“I know.”

Sally’s eyes widened slightly as she realised what John meant. He grinned at her.

“You and...?”

Sally laughed. Threw her head back and laughed more. John couldn’t resist joining her, even though he felt a bit bad doing so in the middle of a cemetery. As their laughter subsided Sally threw her arms around John’s neck and pulled him into a hug.

“He’s a dick, you’re both mad and you deserve each other,” she said, still a little breathless from laughing. There was no malice in her voice. Sally pulled back from the hug and kissed John’s cheek. “Don’t come crying to me if it all goes wrong.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” John chuckled. “Although we could swap embarrassing sex stories.”

“Nothing the man ever did in bed, or outside of it, was embarrassing or even ungraceful,” Sally said seriously.

“I know,” John looked straight ahead, a small smile playing on his lips. For a moment, both got lost inside their own heads, remembering. Warm, pale skin under their fingertips; dark curls against the bed sheets; soft, plush lips under their own. Sally remembered being caught in whirlwind of sensations, always demanding, always three steps ahead. John remembered the affection and care, surprising gentleness and patience, the feeling of being loved and loving back in equal measures. Sally remembered the past. John thought of the present.

 

—

 

As the wind picked up and the sky turned dark blue, threatening rain, John and Sally made their way towards the exit. A familiar, looming figure was waiting for them there. If Sherlock was surprised to see Sally, he was hiding it well. She raised her chin at him.

“Sherlock.”

“Sally.”

John hovered between the two of them, unsure whether he should pick a side.

“I would have done it again, if I had to,” Sally said haughtily. She looked Sherlock straight in the eyes, ready to stand her ground.  Sherlock’s face was impassive and John sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to intervene at any point.

Sherlock was the first to break the eye contact. The left side of his mouth twitched in an almost smirk.

“I would expect nothing less from a competent detective.”

John sighed in relief and unclenched his fists. A small, but significant, step has been taken on both sides to repair a strained relationship.

When neither of them offered any further pleasantries or insults, Sally turned to John.

“It was good to see you again, John,” she said as she hugged him. She nodded once at Sherlock and walked away towards her car. Both men watched her retreating form until she got in and drove away.

“Her and Anderson, you made that up, didn’t you?” John asked without looking at Sherlock. He felt the detective’s scrutinising gaze on him but made no move to meet his eyes.

“She told you about her demotion,” Sherlock stated. John dragged his eyes away from the empty street and up to Sherlock’s face.

“She did. And you’re going to tell me why you were such a twat to her,” John said. Sherlock tensed up visibly. John squared his shoulders and held Sherlock’s gaze. “Then you’re going to tell me everything about the drugs, even if it takes a whole fucking week.”

Sherlock nodded curtly.

“No more lies, Sherlock,” John interrupted him before he had a chance to open his mouth. “No more lies and no more killing yourself. I don’t want to see your grave again until we’re at least eighty.”

Sherlock frowned, his nose crinkling in faint confusion.

“I did not—“

“I know,” John interrupted him again. “I never thanked you for what you did. I’m grateful, I really am, I just—,“ his face crumpled slightly and his shoulders sagged. He leaned forward and rested his forehead on Sherlock’s chest. “I’m still furious but I forgive you and—and I can’t— just shut up and promise me.”

Sherlock’s arms encircled John’s shoulders awkwardly. They stood in silence until it started raining.

They didn’t sleep that night, or the night after, both making promises they wouldn't keep.


End file.
